If
by Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Based on bbckinkmeme prompt: "However much the both of them might want it, Mycroft is very resistant to doing anything sexual with Sherlock. Mycroft continually confounds Sherlock by refusing him despite well-established interest on his part, until Sherlock discovers that Mycroft would be perfectly willing to , because it doesn't count." This is a 5 1 style fic. INCEST.
1. If and only if

He never had to say it outright, and that was the beauty of it, really. He never had to say anything. Mycroft just knew. When he came home from an assignment in Prague to a new younger brother. One whose voice no longer squeaked, whose chest was no longer sunken, but instead, was somehow equal parts lean and muscular. One with dark curls set against pale skin. Whose eyes were every bit the same. Blazing, fierce, determined. But the expression behind them held a promise of something new. He didn't even try to hide it.

"You know," Sherlock had said quietly.

"Must you break every rule known to man?"

"Only the ones with no foundation in logic."

"Rules have a purpose. They preserve society."

"Fuck society."

"Language, Brother Mine. That's new. Are you trying to shock me, Sherlock?"

"If I was trying to shock you, I would say I want to suck just the tip of your cock until you have to grab my hair in utter desperation and shove yourself deeply into my waiting mouth, so you can finally come down my throat."

Mycroft swallowed. "Yes. Yes, that would shock me. Thank God you aren't saying that."

"That," Sherlock grinned, "would be _wrong_."

Sherlock left the room. Mycroft refused to follow.


	2. i- no contact

_I'm bored, Brother Mine. -S_

_I've no pressing cases for you at the moment. _

_Hmmm. Whatever shall I do with my idle hands? The devil's playground. -S_

_Haven't you a doctor who might put those hands to good use?_

_Clearly you do not know how little John Watson knows himself. On a date. Even if I had John Watson, he would be far too conventional. And all that explaining. So much better with someone who can tell what you want without a word. -S_

_As if you are even capable of silence_

_I am capable of whatever is necessary. -S_

There was no doubt about that. Sherlock was capable of beating cocaine without assistance. Of obtaining a position with New Scotland Yard that didn't even exist. Of finding a way to get this too, eventually. Maybe Mycroft was just tired. Middle age comes to us all.

_What is necessary, Mycroft? -S_

_I won't do this, Sherlock._

_What won't you do, Mycroft? -S_

Oh.

_I won't _[he hesitated before he finished typing] _actually touch you, Sherlock._

_Where won't you touch me? Mycroft. -S_

They texted back and forth, punctuating each sentence with each other's name, creating a rhythm with the words, a steady pace.

_I won't trace my thumb across your perineum. You'd be wanting me to do that of course. You'd be hoping I would brush the rest of my fingers lower, that I'd press them inside you, wouldn't you, Sherlock?_

_I'd want to feel them breech me, farther than I could ever go. Claim me. You can't do that, Mycroft. -S_

_No. I wish I could give that to you. A gift from me. But you would have to do that yourself. Would you, Sherlock? _

_Would you touch yourself, Sherlock? _

_Would you do what I can not, Sherlock._

_Thank you. -S_

_Mycroft. -S_

_You're welcome, Sherlock._


	3. ii-power balance

"I can't, in good conscience."

"Conscience?"

"Don't mock me, Sherlock. You know as well as I that this has the potential to go terribly wrong. I am not willing to risk that eventuality."

"Why must you continually underestimate me? Do you truly think I don't know my own will? I am not a child, Mycroft. I want this. You want this."

"You will always be my younger brother. I will always be in a position of power, relative to you, and that will be the seed of resentment. It was difficult enough having to feign antagonism to prevent myself from becoming Moriarty's target... but to actually commit an act that would embody that sort of power imbalance..."

"It is not about power."

"Brother Mine, sex is always about power. Your naïveté is charming. I understand that not acting on any of your impulses has been your choice thus far, and I don't fault you for it, but I'm afraid even though you are... _quite... _far from a child... it would be in my very nature, given our roles, given your inexperience, for me to treat you as lesser. To overpower you, or possibly coddle you as overcompensation. You would resent either action, I assure you."

"And if you couldn't?"

"Couldn't?"

"For The Smart One, you can be remarkably thick. What if I was the one in control of you? To use you as I saw fit. No resentment. We just ... adjust the fulcrum point on the balance... register unequal weights as equal. I can think of several ways I could ensure you were at my mercy. Would that be an acceptable solution?"

"Indeed."


	4. iii- educational purposes

"I see congratulations are in order."

Sherlock was perplexed, and glanced briefly at his reflection in the Diagones' mirrored wall. "Oh. My shirt cuffs."

"Precisely."

Sherlock scoffed. "Not _entirely_ in order."

"Oh? Trouble in paradise?"

Sherlock eyed the door. This had been a supremely bad idea.

"Forgive me, brother. How might I be of assistance?"

"Your presumption, about my, level of experience, at Buckingham Palace..."

"Accurate. And soon to be remedied?"

"One can only hope. If all goes according to plan. But. John has a nickname amongst his friends. Well, I say friends..."

"Oh. Yes. Three Continents Watson. You are intimidated by this? Why?"

"I ... don't know."

"Ah, little brother, side effects of sentiment, I'm afraid. I'm sure you will perform admirably. Romantic advice is not exactly my forté, but I shall endeavor to do my best."

Sherlock felt his throat tighten just a bit. "I, thought you might have access to, someone who might provide services of a more practical nature." _My God, I'm starting to sound like Mycroft._

Mycroft smiled slowly. "Might you be a bit more specific?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. "You know exactly what I mean. Do you have a list? I need some concrete knowledge. I'm out of my depth."

"Come now, Sherlock. Your first time at this, with a prostitute? Aside from the fact that you are for all intents and purposes, an agent of New Scotland Yard..."

"I am a consultant!"

"Yes. A very well-known one. I doubt my contacts would prefer to take on that risk. Besides. Such intimacy with a stranger. I doubt you would let yourself be so vulnerable."

Sherlock frowned. He doubted it too, but there seemed little choice.

"This is very important to you." It wasn't a question, though it did contain an air of surprise.

Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft crossed the room and poured himself a scotch. He offered one to Sherlock. "I suggest you take it. It's how such negotiations are done. I offer you my services. Not as matchmaker for the night. As instructor."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he took the drink.

"I'm, not entirely comfortable in the role of defiler. I'll leave that to John."

An odd heat rose to Sherlock's face. Likely a blush. Perhaps more. He saw Mycroft exhibit a similar reaction.

"I offer myself up as your experiment. As little, or as much, as you wish to explore. My only stipulation is that it be one-sided. I will not touch you directly, nor will I actively seek to arouse you. I promise to communicate what I am feeling to the best of my ability, and to advise... if you wish.

"So this is to be a challenge, is it?"

"No, dear brother, for you, it is a lesson. For me, it is a challenge."


	5. iv- awareness

"It's not that I am opposed to the idea - we've been dancing around it for well over a decade now - but enjoyable as I would find the act, it is not a burden I could continually carry with me. Not everyone possesses your... finely cultivated sense of immorality. Nor the ability to selectively delete. Every time I saw you, I would have to deal with the consequences of my choice. My weakness."

"Mycroft, do shut up, and have some more punch."


	6. v-clothing

They've seen each other naked countless times (it's the nature of brothers), but never quite like this, of course. Sherlock is already in bed, waiting. If someone were to peer in through the high, thickly-curtained windows of their family home, that voyeur would likely think him the more eager of the two. That voyeur would be wrong.

During the years his baby brother was busy finding new ways to treat his body like a skip - filling it with drugs and little else, calculating the rate of exchange for various services his transport could provide- Mycroft's greatest desire was to save him from those who would use him so. To show him what it was to receive a rush of not just physical pleasure, but of genuine affection.

But Sherlock had no interest in being rescued in any way, shape, or form. _All hearts are broken._

That is, until suddenly he did.

Mycroft never knew why. Never asked. Afraid that any analysis would weaken Sherlock's resolve. Clean, curious, self-possessed. Eager to reclaim life. Not just anyone would do. _All broken parts mend._

He disrobes in the darkness, slides next to him. The heavy silence breaks.

"I'm sorry. I can't." Mycroft chokes back emotion as he speaks the words, tries not to bolt out of the bed he has just entered.

"What do you need?" a surprisingly gentle voice responds.

The light is on now. The glare, blinding. He dons pants, then trousers, then a vest, before turning to look back at Sherlock, who is still in bed. He sees himself as one of them now... the ones who take.

Sherlock simply nods and pulls the sheet up a bit higher, over his chest.

"You always wanted to save me. That's where it comes from. Noble knight. Almost chaste... except, it isn't at all chaste to rescue me from the villans of the world so you can have me all to yourself."

"Silly, isn't it."

"If by 'silly' you mean appallingly sentimental, yes."

This is not typical of either of them, this... sentimentality. Neither have exactly sought out romantic relationships elsewhere, and it is both curious and surprising, even to them, that this passing bit of magnetism from their younger years should be revisited now. Perhaps that, in itself, justified its pursuit. Neither of them quite know what to do with surprises.

Sherlock suppresses a sigh and rises, throwing on his pajama bottoms and a shirt and absentmindedly throwing a dressing gown on top of it all. Ridiculous to think this was something they could somehow just do, the two of them. While Mycroft dresses fully, he considers making tea, but comfort is not his area. Instead, he relies on something that is.

"You've changed your mind?"

"No. I just don't think it possible. Not enough darkness, and I _can_ _see_ it is my brother in this bed. Too much darkness, and I _can't see_ that it is."

Sherlock hands him his umbrella, as he turns toward the door, and they both silently observe the simple mechanics of passing an item between them. Sherlock takes a cigarette from the large stack within his Persian slipper (the one John neglected to see him fill), lights it, and exhales gently in his direction.

Mycroft's focus sharpens. Sherlock feels it.

It isn't an explicitly erotic gesture, when he removes it from his own mouth and offers it to Mycroft, nor is it entirely lacking in eroticism. Mycroft takes it and brings it to his lips.

He leans the brolly against the wall in the corner, then turns to find Sherlock advancing on him, before a single, strong thigh pins his entire body to the wall. A smoky kiss. He had not expected a kiss. Nudity. Touch. Sex. Yes, that was all on the agenda, but not the simplicity, and, indeed, the complexity, of this. It is, in fact, chaste, but he finds that between them, no such adjective truly exists. Mycroft traces his brother's jawline. Sherlock briefly closes his eyes and inhales.

It is not what either of them would expect this sort of thing to be like, the rather desperate act of fully-clothed frottage while pinned against a wall. In fact, it is not desperate at all. It is slow and languid.

Mycroft finds himself intrigued by the texture of his brother's shirt (far too silky to be cotton, though he knows it actually is) and he thinks of the milky-white skin beneath it, but he does not remove it, nor run his hands under it. There is a longing to do so, however, which remains, and is somehow reabsorbed into his own body. He smirks.

Sherlock returns the expression, his hand briefly grazing Mycroft's thigh as he increases the pressure on him with his own. Though his thigh is more than enough to keep Mycroft immobilized, they both need there to be more than one point of continuous contact.

His hands are back on Sherlock's chest, but his brain is still very much in the forefront, as he thinks how odd the word 'nipples' sounds within his mind. It isn't, however, odd to touch them gently, through his shirt, as Mycroft's mind slowly begins to release its stranglehold. Sherlock's body shifts involuntarily, and the change in angle against Mycroft's groin elicits a small noise. Sherlock wants to make it bigger.

He chooses to run his fingers, impossibly ongoing violinist's fingers, along his brother's erection, keeping to the outside of his trousers. Mycroft's fingers are not quite as long, but equally dexterous... _his_ instrument having taught him the ability to work both hands independently, but in a precisely coordinated effort. It was at Mummy's insistence that they learned violin and piano... music develops math skills, and vice versa. It occurs to him that this whole enterprise should present more of a psychological barrier, especially since Mummy's music lessons have somehow found their way into the mix, swirling in his brain, but somehow it doesn't. Just a slow and steady set of actions and reactions, none of it seeming too intrusive or at all immoral. He just makes a mental note of it as he switches hands, his left now on Sherlock's chest and his right tracing the hardness forming beneath his brother's silk dressing gown.

Mycroft continues his dual assault, until Sherlock throws his head back, tenses his body for a moment and then moves forward, his head pressing into Mycroft's shoulder with a grunt as he grabs at his brother with renewed vigor and intense determination. Like so many things between them, it has become a competition each is determined to win. The rules of engagement seem to be understood, and the protective layers of clothing remain in place.

Mycroft feels the ease with which the pajama fabric shifts and glides and makes a surprising deduction. Sherlock is wearing silk boxers. Advantage, Mycroft. He grabs a bit deeper with both hands and uses the texture of the fabric against Sherlock, pulling it tight and moving it steadily across frenulum and crown, slowly increasing the pressure, then backing off again until it's just barely skimming across the surface of his skin, then increasing it again. Mycroft smiles when Sherlock faulters, dropping the steady grinding rhythm he had been applying to Mycroft as he struggles for breath, then cries out in release.

Sherlock wastes no time sliding down his brother's body, breathing along the front pleat of his suit, mouthing the base of his cock, wrapping his lips around it through the fabric, traveling up his length shifting it away from the thicker seam of the suit over to the thinner fabric that runs along his thigh. Mycroft lets out a harshly whispered "Sherlock..." as he feels a sudden shift in intensity. His zipper has disengaged ever so slightly...so this time lips hit the thinner fabric of his pants instead of the coarse suit material... and they both groan, with the vibration against Sherlock's throat tipping Mycroft over the edge.

Both spent, Mycroft steadies himself against the wall.

"That was rather unsportsmanlike, Brother Mine, tampering with the fastener..."

"I did no such thing. I merely saw an opportunity which... eventually... presented itself."

"Mmm. Yes. Hardly matters. Well-played."

"Thank you."

"Too bad victory has elluded you."

"So you say." Mycroft retrieved his umbrella, while Sherlock opened the door. He led him out with a hand placed gently on his shoulder.


End file.
